


Tues-moi maintenant

by Yenneffer



Category: Original Work
Genre: Character Study, Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 19:23:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yenneffer/pseuds/Yenneffer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The love and hate intermingle, and they both need them to define themselves, and through their relationship, they define everything else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tues-moi maintenant

**Author's Note:**

> The title, if my limited French is correct, means: Kill Me Now.

There is something not right with the world right now.

It’s bright, like the light managed to chase away all shadows. It’s painful, when you look up at his face and the contours appear marble-like, unnatural, cold.

He is not himself right now.

His lashes refuse to leave smudges against the pale cheeks. It wreaks shudders of repulsion

_(at yourself)_

in your weak, weak body.

You know he hates you for that, maybe even more than for coming between him and _her_. Loathes your weakness because it prevents him from loathing you, completely. Anchors him to some last shreds of humanity and past camaraderie between the two of you.

Even as he mocks it, even as the looks of disgust and revulsion (and do you know the difference? the flavours of his feelings for you? do you now know it better than before?) morph his face into a thousand masks covering the betrayal, the hurt, the desire for more, always more, that used to be so distinctly his, you selfishly realise there is a part of him that cannot let you go. He clings to you, trying to leech your essence.

You are, quite clearly, the last part of the burning world that has yet refused to simmer down. He is feverish (burning freezing white with icy fingers of coming dawn) from want, a tremendous want to see you suffer, to see you die as he kills, as he rips apart; and yet.

_(yet you see how he refuses_

_to let you go_

_how he cannot_

_will not_

_exist without you,_

_without knowing about you, where you are, what you do;_

_it’s twisted, but it’s love_

_at its highest peak)_

This is the wrongness that you feel: the knowledge, age-weary and certain, that he needs you. Needs to hate you. As you lay, despondent and resigned, poisoned with wine and regret (and guilt, that which... you don’t go there, it just is, coiling in your mind, bitter-fanged, and seeping into every crevice of your body, your mouth sick with it- and the apologies that try to spill and get stuck, as you know he would hate you all the more for them). Ironically, your mind is clear due to the drinks you’ve had. It isn’t that you haven’t always known that it has all been your fault; you have. It is that you have always refused to dwell on it, to admit it. You have it buried deep, and his hatred helps. You focus on it, on him, in the present; you forget the love, him, the way it used to be in the past. You cut yourself from all that was, and he lets you.

You both let the other do whatever he pleases.

_(even though you argue_

_and he mocks_

_and fight_

_the filthy beauty of that circle, never aware of itself)_

***

He watches you when you are on the verge of sleep, and as you fall into it, you bask in the attention. In the fact that he still would protect you, even in his loathing for you.

You revel in it as you stretch your long limbs, the dull ache of your stupid stunt from earlier setting in the knots of your spine. You’re in pain, and the sheer pleasure of it knocks you out, almost.

On one of the painful exhales of breath you take, his hand moves, hesitant and hard, brushing away a dirty lock of hair on your forehead.

In the next seconds it seems as if the inhale will never come, and in your victory, you consider not taking this next breath at all. To deny him his hate, to refuse his love, even though you need both, now. You would be lost without the former, not knowing what to do with yourself if the axis of your relationship shifted now, if the wrongness of the world disappeared. However, it is the latter without which he would be lost, you know as you inhale, deep and throbbing with pain in your lungs.

His finger forgets itself and travels down, gently and with a mind of its own, over your cheek and under your bottom lip to your jaw line. It caresses down your throat as you swallow, convulsively, pain throbbing and insistent, ripping under your skin as that fingertip hovers over it.

Then it is his entire hand pressing down, squeezing your throat unyieldingly. You are weak, and he is not. You read the message the gesture carries easily.

“Don’t you dare. If anyone is going to kill you, it’ll be me. Only me,” he whispers hoarsely, the hand tightening more, in warning, as you thrash instinctively, the thought of survival bright in your mind. You don’t stop, and neither does he.

Really, nothing ever changes. It’s all black now, the shadows winning, descending over his face, obscuring the cheekbones and leaking under his fluttering lashes, the only orb of light and colour his icy gaze.

**Author's Note:**

> Now this definitely is a part of a greater story arc. I might even write it some day :)
> 
> I suppose it could be read with slashy goggles on, though what I meant to write is a complicated friendship. Still, everyone has a right to interpretation.


End file.
